The Elf and The Rider
by Emory Lee
Summary: Cultures clash as Eomer sets his sights on Haldir. Eomer/Haldir, maybe others later on.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: A mix of movie and book verse than deviates from canon. In other words, it's AU. Oh and I know nothing about medicine, so be smart and don't hold any credit to what I have here. Possible mpreg, depending on how the story unfolds

Disclaimer: Belongs to Tolkien, I'm just playing in his sandbox and not making a cent.

Chapter 1

"I have lived to see strange days," the old man whispered, wonder briefly overriding pain. He was laid out on one of the many tables in the main hall of Helm's Deep, as the beds were full of those more wounded than he. His head was turned toward the table at his right, watching a pair of elves work on a fellow warrior.

"Indeed," Eomer replied with a distracted air, his attention focused on the half-closed wound before him. An Uruk-hai sword had laid the man's leg open from hip to knee. He was lucky the Uruk had slipped in the mud. The stroke should have cleaved him open from shoulder to hip.

"Elves," the man continued, unaware that Eomer wasn't really listening to him. "I thought they were mere stories, superstitions to keep children in line. How wrong ... have you heard them speaking? Like music it is, rising and falling, yet somehow sad..."

The man rambled on and Eomer allowed him to do so. He had no herbs to numb the flesh around the wound and if talking about elves made the process easier for him to endure, then Eomer wasn't going to complain. The wound was too deep and wide to simply wrap and hope for the best.

The man shifted, uncomfortable, then glanced at Eomer. "Tables are made for eating, not beds for stitching up old men."

Eomer snorted in agreement as he rethreaded his needle. "You will not find argument here." Setting down the spool of thread he slid a little further down the bench, careful not to jostle his own leg. A direct blow from a sword hilt had left his knee swollen. Worried about damage to the joint, Aragorn had ordered him to stay off it and get some rest, lest he do it more damage.

Well, he was staying off it. Rest would come when he had time for it; too many needed help. He was no healer but he could stitch and bind wounds. Every set of able hands were needed as healers were too few. Eomer glanced up at the crowd of wounded along the walls that seemed to thicken every time he looked at it. He saw a young boy frantically ripping cloth to tie off a brother's leg wound, while beside him a small girl applied pressure to a large gash on the face of an unconscious elf. Wounded were everywhere and more elves and men were brought in every few minutes. The air in the hall stunk with the stench of blood, vomit and urine.

"How many more?" the old man asked suddenly, refocusing Eomer's attention.

Eomer studied the length of the wound. "Twenty more, maybe less."

"Ah," the man said, sitting up to briefly study the sutures on his leg. "You have a good hand, Eomer. I bet you've kept many a horse on the field." Eomer bowed his head at the high praise. In his time he had closed the leg wounds of many a horse, preventing the hard scarring that could ruin a mount's ability to move freely.

The man poked at one of the stitches. "That is good. Good hands, good horses" he whispered, talking more to himself than Eomer. Sighing, he laid back down and continued watching the elves. After a moment of silence his mindless prattle began again.

Eomer sighed and concentrated on the suturing; thus keeping the throbbing pain in his knee at bay.

* * *

Eomer was awkwardly helping the old man off the table when a commotion at the door caught his attention. Aragorn was conversing intently with two teenage girls who had an elf supported between them. Unlike the other elves, this one had a deep red cloak. Eomer assumed that he must have been some sort of commanding officer. The girls tried to bring the elf inside and Aragorn shook his head sharply, his face pained.

"He has passed," Aragorn insisted. Eomer wondered if the girls had been misdirected. The elf should have been piled with the rest of the dead.

One girl, a big boned lass with frizzy red hair, shook her head sharply. "Dead don't groan when you move them." The other girl, her sister by appearance, nodded in confirmation and struggled to shift the weight of the elf's arm across her shoulders.

Eomer watched as Aragorn's eyes widened and his face turned white. He lifted the elf's head and laid two fingers just below the jaw, checking for a heartbeat. "Valar!" he swore and spun around, his eyes immediately falling on Eomer's now empty table.

"Bring him here," Aragorn commanded, and the girls quickly complied, laying the elf out on the tabletop. Seeing that Aragorn was focused on the elf, Eomer dismissed the girls, and they left to continue their duty of moving the dead.

"I do not believe my eyes," Aragorn said, scrambling for buckles to the elf's armor. Eomer immediately joined in, unbuckling the breastplate from the other side.

"Do you know him?" Eomer asked, wondering who this elf was to invoke such astonishment from the normally reserved Aragorn.

Aragorn's head shot up, suddenly realizing who was helping him. "I told you to stay off that knee."

Eomer waved a hand at the bench he was seated on. "I have not stood from this spot."

Aragorn's eyes narrowed, but a groan from the elf quickly redirected his attention.

"Haldir," Aragorn said, leaning over the table so he was within the elf's line of sight. "Can you hear me?"

The elf's eyes seemed to focus briefly and Eomer could see a hint of recognition before they clouded over again, then fluttered shut.

Muttering a curse, Aragorn carefully lifted the breastplate then used a knife to slice through the elf's padding and tunic. He peeled the blood soaked and muddy material aside, revealing a wound probably caused from a sword thrust to the lower part of the elf's chest.

Eomer suddenly became aware of the elf's ragged breathing; he had broken ribs.

"A grievous wound," Eomer said. "No wonder he was thought dead."

Aragorn briefly glanced at him but did not respond. He undid the elf's cloak, unbuckled the last of the armor, then cut off the rest of the elf's tunic. "Help me turn him over."

Using the table as a brace, Eomer stood and did as he was bid. The elf was heavier than he looked. His breathing immediately became more labored as he was settled on his front and more pressure was placed on his broken ribs.

Eomer stared at the wound on the elf's back. It ran parallel to the spinal column, just inside the right shoulder blade and was obviously caused by an orc ax. He could clearly see fragments of bone and sliced muscle. Eomer sputtered, "This is impossible! Such a wound would have felled any man!"

"Or elf," Aragorn added. "I caught him as he fell and felt his fea leave him. I do not understand how it is that he breathes still."

"Trickery?" Eomer asked, suddenly wary. "Elf sorcery?"

Aragorn shook his head, carefully probing the wound. "This is no elf magic."

"And how do you know?" Eomer demanded. This man might be the Heir of Isildur, but what would he know of elves?

Aragorn did not look up. "I was raised by elves in Rivendell and taught by Lord Elrond, a master healer. Elves possess no such power over death. He should have gone to Mandos' Halls."

The elf began gasping, unable to get enough air. Aragorn's face darkened. "Let's turn him back, his body cannot handle the pressure of being laid on his chest."

Eomer obeyed and helped Aragorn turn the elf back over before sinking back down onto the bench, his knee throbbing.

"This will not work," Aragorn said, speaking to himself. "I need to tend the wound on his back. But he cannot be laid on his stomach long enough for me to treat the wound properly."

The elves from the nearby table finished with their own patient and quickly joined them, seeing that Aragorn needed assistance. All three began speaking rapid elvish, their faces grave with worry. Eomer felt a stirring of irritation at suddenly being outside the conversation; but he had come to understand that few of the elves fluently spoke the Common Speech, let alone the language of the Rohirrim. He wondered why, surely with such immortal lives they could bother with learning a few languages. Aragorn and the elf, Legolas, had been acting as translators in-between their attempts to care for the wounded, as hand gestures and common sense weren't always enough for the elves and men to get basic ideas across. This situation worried Eomer. He knew that it was only a matter of time before battle shock wore off and grief sent tempers soaring. A few misunderstood words could easily encourage a brawl.

Aragorn paused in his discussion with the elves, his eyes falling on Eomer. "I have an idea." He grabbed an empty chair and set it beside Eomer, gesturing for him to move.

Unsure of what Aragorn was planning, Eomer hesitantly slid into the chair.

"Do you think you can support Haldir's weight? I will need the assistance of the others," Aragorn gestured at the two elves, "if we are to insure that he does not remain a cripple for the rest of his immortal life."

Eomer took a deep breath, considering his own injuries, then nodded. "Just try not to bump my knee."

Aragorn smiled grimly. He briefly clasped Eomer's shoulder in thanks, then turned to give directions to the two elves. Haldir was gently lifted and positioned so he was straddling Eomer's lap, chest pressed to chest. Eomer wrapped one arm around the elf's hips and the other around the top of the elf's shoulders, bracing Haldir against his body.

Eomer looked up at Aragorn. "Will this do?"

Aragorn nodded. Within moments, he had a herb burning in a small bowl which he waved under Haldir's nose to keep him unconscious. Eomer also got a few good whiffs of it and the world around him began blurring pleasantly. He was dimly aware of Aragorn beginning surgery on Haldir's back, the other elves aiding.

He did his best to stay awake, but the long hours riding to Helm's Deep, fighting then helping the wounded, combined with Aragorn's herb, took their toll. And Haldir's warmth was soothing. Eomer tumbled into dreams; his last thoughts focused on the comforting huff of the elf's breath against his neck.

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

**Irish Whirlwind, Estry and Purple Hat- thanks for the comments!**

I was going to cut this into 2 chapters, but it works better together; so it might be a few weeks until I get the next chapter up.

***

**Chapter 2**

***

A soft voice teased the edges of his hearing. "Up Eomer. The sun is far above the horizon and your pony is banging his bucket."

Eomer ignored the voice; the bed was warm and he was tired. He pulled the pillow over his head.

It was quickly pulled away. "Father's coming down the hall," the voice whispered, a gentle mix of scolding and amusement.

Eomer's eyes flew open, panicked - his chores weren't done! His father was going to tan his hide for sleeping in again. He kicked his legs to throw off the covers then gasped as a sharp pain in his knee quickly brought him back to the present. Eowyn, who was seated by his bed, laughed at him.

"Damn it Eowyn! That's not funny!"

"Peace brother," Eowyn said, clasping his hand. "I apologize; I couldn't resist. Gentle prodding was not pulling you from your dreams."

Eomer settled down, frowning as he realized that he didn't remember how he had ended up in the royal family's private quarters. Last thing he could recall was holding the elf.

Hey, what happened to Haldir anyway?

Still slightly off balance, Eomer looked around the room, thinking that he might see the elf. No such luck, but through a small, narrow window in the upper part of the room he could see the rose color of the darkening sky. Night was falling.

"I've slept the day away," he said in disgust and rolled sideways, bracing his weight on his elbow so he could throw his legs over the side of the bed. He needed to check on his men and their horses. It was a sloppy commander who rested before making sure that his men had all their needs met. And many of them were his friends -- there were a few faces he had not seen since their mad gallop into the battle.

"I've seen to your men." Eowyn said, knowing some of his thoughts. She yanked his arm out from under him and tumbled him back onto the bed. "I've also been told to make sure you stay off your feet."

"I do not take orders from Aragorn," Eomer grumbled, crossing his arms and staring stubbornly at the ceiling.

"No, you don't," a voice said softly from the doorway, overriding Eowyn's retort.

Eomer looked and saw his uncle, haggard and still dressed in bloodstained armor. It was obvious he had taken no rest since the battle's end. "Theoden King!" Eomer struggled to rise again, chastising himself for resting when his king had not.

"Lay down Eomer," Theoden ordered, entering the room. "The orders for rest were mine."

Eomer complied, more willingly this time. One of Theoden's personal healers followed behind him, looking dead on his feet. He pushed the covers aside and began examining Eomer's knee without so much as a by your leave. Eomer ignored him, his eyes on his king.

"What news my liege?" he asked, clenching his jaw as the healer poked a particularly tender spot.

"We ride for Isengard within the hour. Gandalf desires parley with Saruman and I would have us both there to see it."

Out of the corner of his eye, Eomer saw Eowyn tense, visibly getting ready to demand that she be included.

"I'll be there," Eomer vowed to Theoden, sparing a fierce glare for the healer and a warning glance for his sister. He would be going with or without the healer's approval, and Eowyn knew damn well that she was needed here. Now was not the time to renew that old argument. She sought the doing of great deeds on the battlefield, to brave paths of peril and gain renown as a great warrior. Why couldn't she understand that the warriors in their songs and tales were considered great, not because they sought the battle, but because they fought when they must?

Eowyn glared back at him but thankfully held her tongue. Eomer knew it was only a small reprieve; Eowyn would wait until she found a better time to make her case, one where she wasn't going up against both Theoden and Eomer at the same time.

The healer rolled his eyes at the silent argument between the siblings, and looked over his shoulder, directing his report to Theoden. "The bruising is severe, but if the knee is wrapped for support he should be able to handle a mount."

"See to it," Theoden said, ignoring Eomer's glare of distaste. Once, during an ambush, a poorly done bandage had come lose and snagged a bush, sending Eomer sprawling in the dirt with four orcs after him. He'd been lucky Theodred had been along to deal with the foul creatures, otherwise he would have been skewered.

The healer complied with Theoden's command, and, in a few short minutes, Eomer was on his feet, flexing his aching knee to make sure the bandage didn't slip. When it didn't, he stepped onto a short, flat chest to see if it would hold up to the most important task; riding. He stood along the edge and dropped his weight down into his heels, setting his legs the way they would be when in the saddle. His knee twinged in complaint, but it held the position.

The bandage passed this test as well, for it didn't restrict his knee, and Eomer was forced to give a grudging nod of approval. The healer smirked, too tired to care if he was being appropriate or not; it wasn't the first time he had treated Eomer. He was well aware of the man's dislike of bandages.

Theoden thanked the healer who then left, tripping over an uneven stone in his exhaustion. Eomer, irritated with the healer's attitude, valiantly resisted making a comment.

"How is Theodred?" Eomer hesitantly asked as he reached for his armor, which had been piled neatly on the floor beside his bed. He'd had no word of his cousin since Grima Wormtongue had driven him from Meduseld. He feared the worst, for Theodred's grip on life had been fading fast. Eowyn shifted in her chair, her face anxious. Eomer realized she knew no more than he did.

Theoden's face softened with relief. "Barring further infection, the healers believe he'll make it."

Tension drained from Eomer's shoulders and chest. It was as if someone had loosened a cinch pulled too tight. He felt like he could take a deep breath for the first time in days.

With a cry of happy relief Eowyn jumped from her chair, threw her arms around Theoden's neck and nearly knocked him off his feet.

Eomer grinned. He had long thought he'd never see such a sight again, Eowyn able to hug Theoden without the fear that she'd accidentally bruise him or even break his bones. They both laughed; then Theoden pulled back so he could gather Eowyn's hands in his own, his face shining in fatherly affection. To Theoden, Eowyn and Eomer were more daughter and son than niece and nephew.

"It's good to see you smile," Theoden said to Eowyn softly.

Her grin widened. "You're healthy and Theodred lives. Rohan has hope."

Theoden's expression sobered. "May hope be enough," he said softly. "Come. I don't know what we may encounter at Isengard, but I would see my son before we ride."

***

Theodred's face was a sickly grey that matched the color of his sheets. 'Too much blood loss,' Eomer thought, remembering the blood that had soaked through bandages and coated his hands as they rode back to Meduseld.

Theoden and Eowyn took the two chairs that were arranged at the head of the bed, while Eomer quietly sat on the bed's edge. The movement woke Theodred, who blinked up at him with dazed eyes, then groaned. "Cousin," he said slowly, "I don't know what we drank last night, but remind me to never indulge in it again."

Eomer and Eowyn laughed while Theoden shook his head in resigned amusement. "Ah, my son," Theoden said, clasping Theodred's hand. "Only you could joke about such an injury."

"That bad, huh?" Theodred asked, cautiously shifting as he tried to determine what was hurt and what merely ached. He gasped as he pulled at the sword wound to his stomach.

Theoden squeezed Theodred's hand as he rode out the wave of pain. "Yes, that bad," he said. "More than once I was sure I'd be burying you with the dawn."

Theodred finally relaxed into his pillows, clearly studying his father's face. "You're healed," he said in amazement. His eyes darted around the room, recognizing the heavy stone. "Helm's Deep. What? What happened? Why are we here?"

Theoden, Eomer and Eowyn exchanged glances, then took turns piecing together the events of the last few days. Theodred listened in silence, speaking only to mummer thanks for Gandalf's healing of his father, or to mention that he did remember a little of the cart ride that had moved him from Meduseld to Helm's Deep when their people were fleeing. He blinked in surprise at the news of Aragorn, Isildur's heir, who led men with valor and strength unmatched but in tales of old. And his jaw dropped as they told of the arrival of the elves that came to honor old allegiances.

When all was said, they waited in silence while Theodred absorbed everything. "Such songs will be made of these days," he said in tired wonder. "Elves walk out of legends. Gondor may yet have a king. The world is changing in ways I never imagined." He paused, then added in irritation, "And I am stuck in this bed where I can see none of it!"

The complaint made them laugh, breaking the somber mood that had settled over the room. Eomer noted this in relief, for Theodred was not by nature a grave man. That he was making an effort to lighten their spirits was a sign that he was on the mend.

"Tell me more about the elves," Theodred said curiously. "How accurate are the stories?"

"They're fair, that's for sure," Eowyn replied as she helped him with a glass of water.

"Fearless in battle," Theoden added. "I've never seen such an organized and well-drilled force."

"Indeed," Eomer agreed. "They're also skilled in healing. I think they could teach our healers a thing or two."

Theodred heard this all with interest. "I wonder if we could persuade some of them to stay? Or do you think the stories about them sailing West are true?"

Eomer shrugged; it was none of his concern. Right now the elves were at Helm's Deep and providing badly needed help. What they did in their own time was none of his concern ... except he would admit that he was curious about the fate of Haldir.

"Speaking of elves," he said, turning to his uncle. "What happened to the elven commander?"

Theoden frowned. "I don't know. Why do you ask?"

"I just ... he..." Eomer cut himself off, strangely awkward and at a loss for words. Somehow, it didn't seem like a good idea to explain that he was curious about an elf he had last seen straddling his lap before he dozed off.

"Never mind," he quickly evaded. "I'll look for him later."

Theoden gave him a puzzled look, but a knock at the door saved Eomer from further explanation. A guard entered, bowing low.

"My King," he said. "Pardon the interruption, but you're needed. The captains and advisors are arguing over temporary defense of the breached wall, and orders are needed for the elven dead."

Theoden frowned, his temper stirring. Nothing angered him like the squabbling between his advisors and captains.

"Can't those fools agree over anything? I have no time for such nonsense," he snapped. "And if they want orders for the elven dead, ask an elf. Whatever they want, you have my full approval to grant it."

The guard winced. "That is part of the problem. The elves we asked didn't speak the Common Tongue."

With a slight roll of his eyes, Theoden paused to gather his patience. "Go," he ordered. "Tell the captains I'll be there shortly." He turned to Eomer. "You'll take care of the elves?"

Eomer nodded readily. It would give him a chance to hunt down Haldir.

"Eowyn," Theoden said, then paused with a frown, the hesitation suggesting that he knew his orders for his niece wouldn't be well received.

"Let me guess," Eowyn said with a quiet bitterness, "Stay with your cousin and see to his needs like a serving woman." Then she sighed, and the fight seemed to go out of her. "Never mind, I will stay. The healers are dropping from exhaustion."

Theodred, ever the peacemaker, tugged at her hand and gave her a playful grin despite the exhaustion that clung to him. "What? You don't like taking care of your favorite cousin?"

"Only cousin," she replied, a reluctant smile gracing her features.

They stood to leave and Theodred looked at them all, his eyes bright. "May you bear songs of great deeds back to me," he said. It was a wish of good luck said by riders who had to stay behind.

"We will," Theoden promised. He pressed a kiss to his son's brow. "Now rest, heal."

"Yes Father," Theodred said with a tired sigh, his eyes closing.

Those were Theodred's last words to his father. Many years afterwards, he would confess to Eomer that he'd wished he had said something more.

***

Eomer headed to the soldiers barracks, knowing that they'd been converted into healing rooms. They were the only spaces in Helm's Deep large enough to hold so many wounded. It was the best place to look for elves, including Haldir.

Eomer picked up the pace, wanting to get his duties over with. He didn't like long term healing wings, not because of an aversion to the sick or dying, but because of the sense of desolation that always clotted the air there. Those kept in the healing wings after initial treatments were usually maimed; and many would never ride again. If infection didn't kill some of them, despair would. And Eomer knew that it was mere skill and chance that kept him from being counted among their numbers.

Bracing himself, Eomer entered the barracks and received a quiet shock. It was filled with music. There were elves spread among the men, and some of them were singing -- softly, gently, in words he didn't understand but nonetheless knew. His eyes closed and he suddenly felt like he was lying in a meadow in early spring. He was dozing, the warm weight of a lover curled against his side. Around them where the sounds of horses grazing, and the slight breeze carried the promise of rain.

It was peace, comfort; and all of it slipped through his grasp as he turned and opened his eyes to see this lover.

He was still in the barracks.

Eomer blinked, unsettled and fighting for balance. By the sword, what was that? He knew it was no memory; he'd never experienced such a day. But at the same time he knew that it was no mere fragment of imagination. It was too vivid, too hopeful.

It almost seemed like a promise.

An elf paused beside him, head tilted in inquiry as he laid a hand on Eomer's wrist. The touch grounded him and Eomer uneasily pushed the strange experience aside to be dealt with later. He had duties to carry out.

"Where is your commander?" he asked, removing his wrist from the elf's grip.

The elf considered this silently, then motioned for Eomer to follow. He led him through the crowded room, pausing sometimes to say a few words in elvish to other elves that called out to him. One would think that talking would interrupt the singing; but the song continued on, elves joining in or dropping out, creating a continuous, soothing melody that seemed to support rather than overwhelm. Eomer didn't fail to notice that all the men in the room were resting peacefully.

They finally paused at a bed near the far side of the barracks. The elf seated on a chair there had his back turned to them, blocking the view of the one he was tending in the bed beside him.

"Rumil?" his guide asked quietly.

Rumil stiffly turned. His left arm was splinted and in a sling, and his right hand was holding a blood stained cloth. The bruise on his cheekbone was turning an impressive shade of purple.

The two elves spoke briefly in elvish, then the other elf left.

Rumil briefly looked him up and down, silently assessing. "You seek our commander?" he asked in halting Common speech. He was careful of each word, as if making sure that it was correct.

Eomer nodded. "Yes. There are some matters I need to discuss with him."

"Sit down. Please," Rumil said, motioning for Eomer to grab an empty chair at another bed and join him. "Aragorn is the one you should speak with. He will be here soon."

Eomer grabbed the chair while Rumil turned to wash his cloth out in a water basin on the floor. Eomer suddenly had a clear view of the unconscious elf Rumil was tending.

"Haldir," Eomer said in surprise.

Rumil looked at him, one eyebrow arching. "You know my brother?"

Brother? Eomer pulled back slightly, comparing both of them. Yes, he could see some family resemblance, though Haldir seemed to have a much heavier body structure than his brother. Eomer found that appealing.

Rumil waited silently.

Realizing that he hadn't answered the elf, Eomer sat down beside him with a sigh, feeling his knee twinge and tired muscles complain. "I know him a little," he said. "I helped Aragorn tend him when he was brought in."

Rumil bowed his head. "Then I owe you my thanks."

"Not necessary."

"Still, my thanks are given," Rumil said, his tone indicating that he considered the matter closed. He turned back to his brother, using the wet cloth to remove the dirt from his face and the bloody mats from his hair. Eomer watched him work, the movements gentle and controlled despite the awkwardness of using one hand. Eomer felt the urge to help, but something about the way Rumil tended Haldir told him that help would not be welcome. This was family, and he would only be a stranger intruding.

So he stayed where he was and watched, feeling rather useless.

"Look what I found," said a voice over his shoulder.

Eomer twisted in his chair; Aragorn stood behind him, supporting an elf whose leg was splinted.

"Orophin!" Rumil exclaimed. He surged to his feet and pushed past Eomer, grabbing the elf in a hug with his good arm. He repeated one word over and over, his voice breaking.

Eomer looked to Aragorn for translation.

"Brother," Aragorn said softly.

Eomer's eyebrows rose. A third brother? Just how large were elven families? He'd always assumed they had small families- wait, that wasn't true either. In fact, he'd never given the idea that elves had families much thought. Before this, he'd been sure elves where nothing but fanciful tales.

Aragorn met his gaze then tilted his head at the door on the other side of the barracks, clearly indicating he wanted to talk elsewhere.

Eomer nodded and reluctantly followed him out, but not before glancing back to take one last look at the three brothers. And if his gaze lingered a little longer on Haldir, well, he wasn't about to admit it to anyone, let alone himself.

***

"Elven burial rituals?" Aragorn repeated, eyebrows rising in askance.

Eomer got the impression he had asked a question that, while not stupid, had an obvious answer he should have easily seen.

"There are no rituals Eomer, except to thank them for their sacrifice, and to wish them healing and peace in Mandos' Halls. Both of these are done in songs, which are sung at the break of dawn."

Aragorn paused, bracing his hands against the wall so he could stare out over the muddy field. Eomer stood beside him, looking at the two mounds that were slowly being erected out of the Rohirrim dead. Farther out, wagons were piling the enemy for burning. And below them, near the foot of the wall, the elven dead were laid out in neat rows, waiting, waiting for the living to lay them to rest.

"Did you know," Aragorn asked softly, "that some elves call death the Gift of Men?"

Eomer gave this question a brief moment of thought.

"That's mad talk," he said.

A sad smile graced Aragorn's face. "It seems so, does it not?" He paused, then admitted, "I don't quite understand it either."

Movement below caught Eomer's attention. Near the shattered remains of the gate, elves were gathering. They were checking weapons, adjusting armor, and slowly gathering into a loose formation.

"They're leaving so soon?" Eomer asked worriedly, realizing he was loosing some badly needed warriors.

"The lands of men are not the only ones under threat," Aragorn said in quiet reminder. "The enemy armies threaten Lothlorien's borders and they will soon attack if they haven't already. The Lord and Lady risked much by sending so many here to aid us. I am sending them home. They will have to travel fast if they hope to rejoin their kin in time."

Eomer thought quickly, calculating the time it would take to make a journey to their borders on foot. Seven days at least, if they pushed hard then maybe less. Add in the journey here, which must have been swift, the toll of the battle and the knowledge that they would be going straight into another battle when they arrived. It was quite probable that exhaustion would kill them all, one way or another.

So much risk by a race that was supposedly leaving these shores.

"I don't understand," Eomer said. "Why do these elves honor alliances made with men who have long since turned to dust in the earth? Why do they risk their lives when they are leaving? Or is that story more tale than truth?"

"It's true," Aragorn said, and there was such a depth of sadness in his eyes that Eomer could not bear to question it further.

"If you want to ask why the elves fight when they are leaving," Aragorn continued, "then I think you'd have to ask the same of us. For by the stroke of a sword, sickness, or the passage of time, we are all leaving these lands. So, Eomer of Rohan, why do you fight?"

Eomer swallowed. He thought about Eowyn and how her golden laugher would ring through the air as she played games on horseback with Rohan's children. And how Theodred would eagerly welcome travelers and traders, his eyes alight at the possibility of stories and new knowledge. He thought of celebrations in Meduseld and how, with enough beer, he could convince Theoden to put kingly dignity aside and dance and laugh with his people. He thought of his men, and the way it felt to gallop across the Westfold with them at his flanks, as sure and dependable as the stallion under him.

"Hope," he answered at last. "Hope that not all that I love will be left to evil."

Aragorn gripped his shoulder. "I have lived among the elves for many years," he said. "I think I'd be quite on the mark if I said that they fight for the same reasons as us."

Eomer looked again at the gathering elves and, for the first time, he saw them not as numbers to fill his ranks, nor shades from legends, but as people who had as much to lose as he did. For that reason alone, he would see to it that their dead kin were treated with honor and respect.

"Where do you want their bodies laid to rest?" he quietly asked.

Aragorn sighed, then straightened and turned to him; and the Rohirrim warrior's breath caught in his chest. For in Aragorn's eyes was a great light, and on his shoulders he bore the history of the ages. This man was a king, worthy and able to claim Gondor's throne, and the flame of hope that had been struggling in Eomer's breast flared.

"If Theoden King would permit," Aragorn said formally, "lay my brethren with yours."

Eomer laid his open palm over his heart, and bowed. "The honor is ours," he said, and meant it.

***

They conversed for a while longer, making plans for the elven wounded that would be staying so they would not slow the speed of the others. As they talked a full moon rose, casting its silvery light over the blood soaked land.

An elf horn sounded below and Aragorn excused himself to speak with the elves one more time before they left. Eomer stayed on the wall and watched the elves fall into formation, visibly adjusting themselves for the holes in their ranks. He sighed, quietly wishing that he could spare some men to accompany them. He didn't like receiving aid only to turn around and not help those who had helped him. But every able man was preparing to go south, for Gondor would need them in the coming days when the foul evil in Mordor surged forth.

The shrill nicker of a horse broke the air and it was answered by several of its stable mates. 'Where are you,' the horse seemed to ask and the others answered, 'Here, here. We made it through." Even the horses were trying to figure out who had survived and who was no more.

The horse nickered again, still searching, and Eomer knew that the stable mate it wanted must have been killed in battle.

His heart heavy, Eomer watched the elves and listened to the horses, knowing he could help neither. Suddenly, he straightened, an idea forming. He might not be able to help either one, but perhaps they could help each other.

Eomer sprinted for the stairs, hollering for the closest Riders to attend him.

***

When the elves finally marched from Helm's Deep, they found their way blocked. A halt was called and they watched in puzzlement as Riders trotted towards them, each one ponying two or three horses beside the one they rode.

Aragorn, who was readying his horse for the ride to Isengard, mounted and made his way to the front line of elves to see what was delaying them. Legolas joined him, a smile on his face as he listened to Gimli grumble about crazy elves who didn't have the sense to ride with bridle and saddle. Arod seemed to have an opinion on the matter as well, as he paused long enough to swing his head around and bite at Gimli's leg.

"What is this, Eomer?" Aragorn asked as Eomer nudged his stallion through the other Riders, leading a bay and two chestnuts.

"They are gifts to aid hope," Eomer said, and he grinned as comprehension dawned on Aragorn's face.

"I can supply saddles and bridles if they are wanted," Eomer added. "But I was not sure if I should," he said, nodding towards Legolas who rode with neither.

"They are a kingly gift," Legolas said, his experienced eye quickly taking stock of the horses. "And the offer of tack is appreciated, but speed is of the essence and the less weight the horses have to carry, the better."

Legolas turned to the elves, his voice clear and strong as he spoke in their language. Grins broke out among the elves, and Eomer knew his horses were well received. The elves broke formation, approaching the horses that the Riders led a few at a time so as not to spook them. Halters were removed and given to the Riders, elven words and gentle hands all the restraint necessary to control the spirited animals. They mounted with ease and as they rode out, they passed by Eomer, bowing their heads and touching their fingertips to their brows in thanks.

Eomer marveled at them as he watched them leave, the moonlight on elven cloaks and slick horse coats giving them an unearthly air. And for a moment, he even imagined what Haldir would have looked like, galloping across the field with his men.

But such wonderings had little value when more important things pressed, for the night was no longer young and he could see that Theoden was impatient to be on his way. Eomer ordered his men to move out, and as he rode he tried to put thoughts of the elven commander out of his mind.

tbc


End file.
